PS 

3513 

G755w 


WAlt'S,    OK    POEMS 
BY   BERNARD   GRADr 


*H-^HH— Hll-^im  — IIH— 1HI— IIII^— »II* 

I  WAIFS,  OR    POEMS  j 
BY  BERNARD  GRADY 


NEW    YORK 


E 


ROBERT    GRIER    COOKE  § 

INCORPORATED 


MDCCCCVII 
1IU—  —  Itll—  IHI—  IIII—  II? 


COPYRIGHT,    1907,     BT 
ROBERT  GRIEK  COOKE,  INC. 


ROBERT  ORIER  COOKE,  INC.,  NEW  YORK 


PS" 
35/3 


FOREITORD      . 

/N  this  little  volume  are  harvested  the  first- 
fruits  of  my  Muse,  gleaned  at  very  indefinite 
periods  within  the  past  sixteen  months,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  early  poems;  for  various- 
dealing  Fortune  decreed  not  I  should  be  a  child  of 
leisure  and  devote  my  days  according  to  my  choice. 

I  partake  of  the  painful  uncertainty  natural  to  an 
unheralded  intruder  into  the  sacred  precincts  of 
Parnassus,  as  to  the  reception  his  first  efforts  may 
receive,  and  yet  am  nevertheless  hopeful  for  them, 
and  shall  appreciate  any  indulgence  my  friends  and 
the  public  may  extend  these  youthful  labors. 

Till  now  these  thoughts  have  wrought  nothing,  nor 
can  so  long  as  they  repose  in  the  tray  of  my  trunk;  but 
henceforth  they  are  the  world's,  since  I  assume  the 
responsibility  of  sending  them  forth,  in  doing  which  I 
believe,  if  no  great  good  is  expressed  in  them,  at  least 
no  evil  is. 

I  bid  them  Adieu,  believing  they  will  bespeak 
themselves,  and  charge  them  to  do  what  good  they 
can  in  their  pilgrimage. 

BERNARD  EDWARD  GRADY. 
August  30,  1906. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

GRIEVING  MAY'S  DEPARTURE        i 

My  LOST  SISTER 2 

RETURN  OF  SPRING         4 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  EASTER 7 

OUR  Loss 8 

IN  ARLINGTON,  SWEETLY  SLEEPING 10 

LOVE'S  ANOMALY 12 

FORTUNE  OR  LOVE? 15 

THE  SUSTAINING  ANGEL      .     .     .     ; 17 

WHEN  I  AM  GONE 20 

WOULD  You? 21 

A  RESCUED  FLY 23 

BLEST  OF  A  WOMAN'S  LOVE 24 

YOUR  Kiss  ABIDETH 25 

IF  THE  HEART  BE  GOOD 26 

LEST  IT  DEPART 27 

DISSOLUTION         29 

IF  EACH  ONE  DID  His  PART 30 

WOMAN 32 

AFFAIRS  OF  THE  HEART 33 

THE  HARVEST  OF  DELAY 34 

THIS  WORK 35 

WHY  NOT  LET  IT  SLUMBER 36 

TILL  I  MET  You 38 

WHY  I'M  SAD  TO-DAY         39 

BURNING  YOUR  LETTERS 40 

vii 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

To  MAT-TIE     .     t 40 

USING  TO-DAT 42 

THE  POET 43 

WHAT  Is  MY  LIFE? 45 

DAT  BT  DAT 46 

PREVIOUS  DISPOSITION        48 

To  His  MAJESTY,  THE  SAFETT-PIN         49 

WHAT  A  MAN  SHOULD  GIVE         50 

REJOICE  WITH  ME          52 

HEART  DESOLATION 53 

THOSE  ETES  OF  BLUE         55 

A  PASSING  FACE 56 

LOST 57 

Two  WORDS 60 

YE  SILENT  STRINGS        63 

Do  WE  DIE  BUT  ONCE? 66 

SPECTATOR  OR  SPECTACLE    69 

A  TRIBUTE  TO  TRUST         71 

THE  DEAD 74 


Vlll 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 
BY  BERNARD   GRADY 


GRIEVING  MAY'S  DEPARTURE 

Good-by  is  the  word  that  comes  to  rest 
Its  weight  on  the  heart  of  the  lightest  breast; 
And  wakens  the  soul  to  thought  of  gloom, 
The  word  of  all  words  I  would  entomb. 

The  friend  that  steals  from  my  side  away  — 
As  all  do  steal  —  is  the  lovely  May: 
Fair  queen  of  the  months,  O  why  depart! 
And  leave  in  regret  this  mutual  heart  ? 

So  few  seem  to  come  with  joys  as  true, 
As  shine  from  the  skies  of  thy  deep  blue; 
Or  gleam  from  the  earth  in  countless  eyes 
And  scent  all  the  air  where  thy  way  lies. 

Full  short  was  the  day  of  thy  sojourn, 
And  thoughts  of  the  soul  to  thee  will  turn; 
Vain  man  will  recall  the  solemn  truth  — 
Thus  fleet  are  the  days  of  love  and  youth! 

To-day  in  the  flush  of  the  heat  and  strife, 
Absorbed  in  affairs  of  this  false  life, 
To-morrow  gone  —  like  the  sun  that's  set, 
O  say,  like  him  shall  we  rise  in  beauty  yet  ? 
I 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Sweet  May,  come  again  and  make  us  glad, 
Nor  stay  long  away  from  the  Earth  so  sad, 
O  come  with  the  joys  you  always  bring, 
And  teaeh  us  new  songs  of  praises  to  sing. 

So  soon  we  too  must  depart  this  earth, 
With  its  oceans  of  sorrow  and  rivers  of  mirth; 
May  we  also  bring  joy  as  the  May  in  her  bloom, 
And  garner  sweet  rest  past  the  grave  and  the  tomb. 

May  25,  l! 


MY  LOST  SISTER 

She  departed  with  the  summer, 

Departed  to  a  clime 
Where  the  seasons  do  not  vary, 

Where  it's  ever  Springtime. 

When  nature  paled  and  fell  asleep, 

In  her  grave  in  the  earth, 
The  sunlight  of  our  home  went  back 

To  Him  who  gave  her  birth. 

And  fain  would  we  have  detained  her, 

Had  it  been  our  power, 
But  the  Planter  abruptly  called, 

And  reclaimed  the  flower. 

2 


BT  BERNARD   GRADT 


Reclaimed  it  to  fairer  gardens, 

In  beauty  there  to  bloom, 
And  in  untainted  atmosphere 

Diffuse  its  sweet  perfume. 

Why,  we  asked  ourselves,  'mid  our  grief, 
Should  she  be  called  so  young  ? 

But  were  rebuked,  as  came  the  thought  - 
Thy  will,  O  Lord,  be  done. 

Although  we  comprehend  not  why 
Youth  should  be  thus  cut  down, 

We  know  that  what  is  lost  in  Him 
Shall  some  sweet  day  be  found. 

We  believe  we  shall  meet  again 

In  a  life  that  succeeds, 
In  a  day  when  convened  shall  be 

All  nations  and  all  creeds;  — 

That  to  be  called  away  in  youth, 
Pure  innocence  to  vice  unknown, 

Gives  more  promise  than  tempted  age 
Of  a  seat  on  Heaven's  throne. 

As  the  poet  has  truly  said, 

"The  grave  is  not  life's  goal"; 

For  beyond  that  gloomy  region 
Else  doth  await  the  soul! 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Then  sigh  thee  not,  O  troubled  heart, 

For  the  spirit  that  has  flown, 
For  in  a  better  land  it  lives, 

Beyond  the  starry  dome. 

To-day,  while  her  dust  reposes 

Beneath  Linconia's  sod, 
Her  spirit,  ever  blessed  thought, 

Is  resting  with  its  God. 

October,  1899. 

RETURN  OF  SPRING 

Sweet  step  of  Spring,  have  I  thee  heard  ? 
And  comes  that  music  from  a  bird  ? 
Has  magic  transformed  nature's  face, 
And  called  to  life  what  did  seem  waste  ? 
Or  do  my  eyes  and  ears  deceive  ? 

Far  lighter  now  doth  seem  my  tread, 
And  dulness  quick  away  has  fled; 
And  life  seems  new,  and  oh,  how  sweet! 
What  has  performed  this  wondrous  feat  ? 
For  surely  I  am  not  deceived  ? 

Deceived  ?  why  no,  not  so,  my  friend, 
Replies  from  birds  and  flowers  blend; 
Thou  hath  not  erred,  for  she  is  come, 
And  trees  will  bloom  and  bees  will  hum, 
And  life  will  conquer  death  again. 

4 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


We  come  to  sound  no  false  alarms, 
With  her  that  gives  to  life  new  charms, 
Alone  come  we  to  do  a  part 
In  making  happy  mortal  heart; 
No  longer  doubt  that  Spring  is  come. 

Foretelling  her  return  again, 

Since  thus  you  speak  my  doubts  do  end. 

You  flee  the  thought  that  I'm  unwise 

By  error  of  my  ears  or  eyes, 

And  glad  am  I  that  I  am  not. 

Again,  mild  one,  thou  art  come  back; 
Awak'ning  nature  marks  thy  track, 
By  landscapes  dead,  now  fair  and  green, 
And  dreary  days  now  bright,  serene, 
Which  wake  the  heart  to  glad  response. 

The  birds  sing  carols  'mid  the  trees, 
And  fragrance  fills  the  balmy  breeze; 
The  air  with  dainty  music  rings, 
Such  as  comes  not  from  courts  of  kings, 
For  God's  musicians  sound  their  notes! 

Once  more  the  sap  has  upward  crept, 
And  plant  life  wakes  —  enough  has  slept; 
Awakes  to  life,  though  it  be  brief, 
Yet  life,  since  Spring  in  sweet  relief 
Is  come  with  blessings  so  divine. 

5 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Dare  ye  to  say  there  is  no  God 
Who  wields  o'er  all  His  mighty  rod  ? 
To  nature  look  and  get  her  proof 
Unto  this  great  and  living  truth, 
That  more  than  man  hath  done  all  this! 

Instinct  alone  enough  affords, 
To  trust  in  Him  Who  season's  cords 
Can  strike  at  will  to  death  and  gloom, 
Or  better  yet,  to  life  and  bloom; 
Which  deeds  defy  the  will  of  man. 

Fair  youth,  behold  a  lesson  true, 
The  Spring  of  Life  belongs  to  you; 
Fresh  now  that  life  and  undefiled, 
On  it  has  Heaven  sweetly  smiled, 
Nor  turned  away  because  of  Sin. 

In  spring's  bright  days  the  husbandman 
Lets  seed  that's  sound  fall  in  his  land, 
And  waits  to  see  a  worthy  yield 
Of  grain,  from  that  sound-seed  sown  field, 
When  comes  the  merry  harvest  time. 

But  having  placed  therein  the  seed, 
He  keeps  the  youthful  plant  from  weed; 
Keeps  fresh  the  soil  about  the  roots, 
That  harvest  days  may  find  the  fruits 
Matured,  and  from  corruption  free. 

6 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


If  you  would  reap  a  harvest  rife, 

Be  careful  of  that  Spring  of  Life; 

Then  mould  the  thoughts!  then  guide  the  acts! 

And  set  their  feet  on  upward  tracks, 

That  terminate  at  Heaven's  gate. 

So  keep  bright  Springtime  in  your  heart 
Through  winter's  gloom  and  sorrow's  smart; 
And  in  thy  weakness  look  above, 
The  Seat  of  Strength,  the  Seat  of  Love, 
Will  be  your  all  sufficient  aid. 

May,  1 900. 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  EASTER 

The  Lord  arose  on  Easter  Day; 

O  Jew,  defiance  to  thy  deed! 
He  rose  His  slayers  to  redeem, 

And  for  all  sin  to  intercede. 

Defeat,  O  grave!     He  burst  thy  bonds, 

And  came  the  victor  o'er  Death, 
To  prove  that  man  who  rightly  lives 

May  live  beyond  his  mortal  breath. 

O  Sin,  defeat!  thy  rule  is  broke, 

In  Resurrection  man  has  hope ; 
The  light  now  shines  —  the  night  recedes, 

And  in  the  dark  no  more  we  mope. 

7 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


The  gloom  that  settled  o'er  the  land, 

When  undeserving  death  He  bore 
By  hand  of  man,  for  sin  of  man, 

Is  now  dispelled  forevermore. 

Because  He  rose,  I  too,  shall  rise; 

The  gloomy  grave  cannot  retain 
Its  burden  longer  than  the  burst 

Of  that  immortal  trumpet  strain. 

Then  I  will  rise,  and  to  my  Lord 

In  triumph  I  shall  take  my  way; 
And  round  the  throne  I'll  praise  Him  e'er 

Because  He  rose  on  Easter  Day. 

April,  1901. 

OUR  LOSS 

A  thunder-bolt  has  fallen  on 

America;  both  far  and  near, 
And  wrought  by  its  ill-starred  descent, 

A  loss  which  Earth  cannot  repair. 

Vain  hope!  that  led  us  to  believe 

That  Providence  would  heal  his  wound, 

For  heart-born  words  sent  up  to  God 
Did  not  receive  their  much-craved  boon. 

The  news  that  flashed  across  the  wires 
Each  day  spoke  him  recovering, 

8 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


But  human  skill  saw  not  the  hand 
Of  Death  about  him  hovering. 

Thus  hope  was  up  till  Friday  night, 
And  then  did  skill  claim  its  defeat; 

The  stimulants  no  longer  served 
To  make  his  noble  heart  to  beat. 

Again  the  wires  announced  the  news, 
So  sad  that  fondest  hope  was  fled, 

And  trusting  souls  broke  down  at  these 

Heart-rending  words,  "Our  Chief  is  dead"! 

And  shall  we  ask  why  this  should  be, 

And  murmur  at  his  loss  I  pray  ? 
Or  with  the  slumberer  in  Christ 

Humbly  admit,  "It  is  God's  way." 

Not  once  did  he  complain  to  go, 
He  was  prepared  to  cross  the  span, 

No  fears  did  haunt  his  parting  hour, 
He  lived  and  died  a  Christian  man. 

Well  had  he  won  all'  life  can  give 
To  him  who  climbs  nor  idle  waits, 

And  with  a  grateful  people's  love 

Triumphant  passes  through  the  Gates. 

O  God,  Thou  Comforter  Supreme! 
Console  his  kin  and  his  dear  wife, 

9 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


For  whom  he  rallied  e'en  in  Death, 
And  comforted  —  last  act  in  life. 

Console  Thou  her,  an  invalid, 

Whose  grief  a  nation  duly  shares, 
And  whisper  in  her  stricken  ear, 

"We'll  meet  beyond  this  Vale  of  Tears." 

And  do  Thou  guide  the  sturdy  one 

Who  sadly  undertakes  to  steer 
The  Ship  of  State,  whose  Captain  dead 

We  mourn  with  Sorrow's  bitter  tear. 

And  in  its  present  upward  path, 

Give  him  the  grace  to  guide  it  on, 
Which  will,  when  he  shall  quit  the  helm, 

Place  him  where  Love  and  Fame  doth  crown. 

September  23,  1901. 


IN  ARLINGTON,  SWEETLY  SLEEPING 

Fair  heights  above  the  stream 

That  flows  in  beauty  on, 
A  right  fit  resting-place  are  ye, 

With  green  and  grassy  lawn, 

For  those  within  thy  grounds, 
Who  sleep  the  years  away; 

IO 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 

Whose  ev'ry  grave,  with  loving  hearts, 
We  gladly  deck  to-day. 

Again  the  flowers  come, 

The  noble  work  to  aid, 
As  if  against  the  sacred  time 

Their  journey  had  been  made. 

Long  years  the  union  men 

Alone  slept  in  thy  grounds; 
But  sad  events  of  nearer  years 

Are  marked  by  new-made  mounds. 

About  thy  elder  beds 

More  heroes  we  have  lain  — 

The  victims  of  another  strife, 
For  suffering  brothers  slain. 

Together  there  they  lie, 

Cut  down  by  war's  ill  breath; 

The  North,  the  South,  the  blue,  the  gray, 
No  longer  foes  in  Death! 

No  war-cry  more  will  come, 
No  sound  will  rouse  their  sleep, 

Nor  stealthy  scout  from  foeman's  rank 
By  Angel  sentry  creep. 

His  watch  will  steadfast  be 
Above  that  camp  so  still, 

II 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Until  the  trumpet  call  shall  wake 
The  dead  of  vale  and  hill. 

To  these,  America, 

Your  station  proud  you  owe; 
In  danger's  hour  who  forward  sprang 

And  crushed  the  awful  foe. 

O  Liberty,  salute 

Thy  each  sustaining  son, 
Who  gave  his  all  and  laid  it  by  — 

The  course  he'd  scarce  begunl 

O  Seat  of  Government, 

An  honor  that  they  sleep 
Thy  portals  nigh,  to  mind  us  of 

The  blood-bought  trust  we  keep. 

Sleep  on,  and  take  your  rest, 

In  Jesus  sleep,  and  trust 
The  proper  keeping  of  your  graves 

To  grateful  ones  —  to  us. 

May  20,  1902. 

LOVE'S  ANOMALY 

The  way  of  Life  would  dreary  be, 
Devoid  of  all  its  joy  and  bloom, 

A  state  of  happiless  degree  — 

A  cheerless  stretch  unto  the  tomb; 

12 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


But,  favored  soul,  a  gift  was  thine, 
Whose  magic  name  I  scarce  need  call, 

Since  gladly  known  to  most  mankind, 
To  ward  away  this  threat'ning  pall. 

Two  lives  I've  seen  forever  blest 

By  love's  sweet  spell  which  made  them  one; 
And  through  all  trials  have  stood  the  test, 

Serenely  stood  —  till  life  was  done. 
And  when  the  shadow  fell  at  last, 

And  Death's  lone  valley  opened  wide, 
This  love  of  Earth,  about  to  pass, 

Foretold  the  sweets  beyond  the  tide. 

Two  more  I've  seen,  where  Death  stole  in 

And  tore  away  the  mutual  heart, 
And  from  the  soul's  it  might  have  been, 

No  ray  of  hope  but  did  depart; 
And  starless  night  her  curtain  drew, 

And  over  softly  smiling  skies 
A  somber  cloud  its  mantle  threw, 

And  reigned  the  pain  that  never  dies. 

Yet  Death,  thy  work  is  mild  to  this  — 
The  crudest  fate  to  which  man's  heir, 

To  feel  the  fires  of  Eros'  bliss, 

His  soul  enflame  with  fullest  share, 

Whose  object  ne'er  can  rouse  in  turn 
That  love  which  doth  his  heart  enslave, 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


And  ever  must  his  spirit  burn, 
Beyond  the  balm  of  Earth  to  lave. 

O  Love!  why  art  thou  so  unkind  ? 

Thou  joy-crowned!  why  bring  us  woe  ? 
Affection  why  so  oft  to  bind 

To  hearts  that  shed  no  kindred  glow  ? 
Why  wreck  a  life  which  thou  couldst  make  ? 

O  why!  anomaly  supreme  ? 
What  ghastly  pleasure  canst  thou  take 

In  shattering  man's  ethereal  dream  ? 

O  echoes  of  the  Nile,  awake, 

And  lend  my  ear  your  mournful  tale; 
Ye  mighty  sphinx,  in  trembling  shake, 

The  cry  is  Cleopatra's  wail! 
A  serpent's  fang  was  sweeter  meat 

Than  life  without  her  Antony; 
And  Egypt's  throne  far  less  could  treat, 

With  all  its  claims  for  life,  than  he. 

Nor  is  respect  to  classes  shown, 

Thou  dealest  with  each  human  soul; 
And  Egypt's  queen  stands  not  alone 

Upon  thy  ghastly  honor  roll. 
Come  not  my  way,  if  thou  wouldst  sow 

Within  my  heart  this  bitterness, 
Pass  on,  nor  let  me  ever  know 

The  awful  sting  thou  dost  possess! 

April  21,  1905. 


BY  BERNARD  GRADT 


FORTUNE  OR  LOVE? 

A  fate  unkind  once  came  between 
Two  lovers  and  their  brightest  dream; 
The  future  which  seemed  brightly  theirs 
Threw  off  her  smile  and  bathed  in  tears. 

The  maid  refused  to  leave  her  home, 
In  wedded  life  afar  to  roam, 
For  Fortune  called  the  youth  away, 
While  Love  would  have  him  ever  stay. 

He  could  remain  and  know  Love's  bliss, 
At  cost  of  worldly  fortune's  miss, 
But  Fortune  played  his  clouded  eyes; 
Pursuit  of  her  appeared  more  wise. 

For  chance  of  earthly  fortune  gave 
The  rarest  pearl  this  side  the  grave; 
And  she  to  Wisdom  played  the  fool, 
O  what  home  ties  —  true  love  to  rule  ? 

The  trees  near  where  they  parted  told 
To  me  one  eve,  when  forth  I  strolled, 
The  trembling  words  the  stars  and  they 
In  anguish  heard  that  fateful  day. 

The  youth  spoke  first,  and  Nature  paused 
As  if  reversed  some  hand  her  laws, 

15 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


And  Gods  of  Night  came  near  and  wrote, 
On  fadeless  scroll,  the  words  I  quote. 

"When  in  your  eyes  no  more  I  slake 
Love's  thirsting  glance,  my  heart  will  break. 
In  years  to  come,  with  spirit  gone, 
I'll  plod  my  dreary  course  along. 

"And  when  Death  comes,  transporting  me 
To  lands  where  dwells  no  agony, 
With  joy  I'll  don  his  dreaded  mask, 
And  quit  me  of  this  weary  task. 

"  For  such  is  Life,  your  love  without, 
To  mitigate  each  fear  and  doubt, 
To  make  the  troubled  wave  seem  smooth, 
And  sharpest  pang  as  balm  to  soothe." 

In  vain  the  list'ner  tried  to  speak, 
And  colorless  was  all  her  cheek; 
Forth  from  her  side  he  calmly  went, 
And  Night  her  sighing  breezes  lent. 

And  Fortune  came,  but  what  its  worth, 
Companioned  by  Affection's  dearth  ? 
And  oft  he  wished  he'd  stayed  behind 
In  lesser  state  —  with  Love  entwined. 

When  years  were  gone  —  in  twilight's  hour 
A  maiden  sat  within  her  bower, 

16 


BY  BERNARD  GRADT 


And  mused  on  days  when  Life  to  her 
An  object  held  without  a  peer. 

And  as  the  past  came  swiftly  up, 
She  drank  again  the  bitter  cup; 
And  looking  on  the  evening  star, 
Her  heart  again  felt  all  its  fire. 

But  Discipline,  full  cold  and  stern, 

Now  bade  her  mind  such  thoughts  to  spurn, 

To  bravely  bear  the  lot  she'd  cast, 

Nor  live  again  within  the  past. 

And  as  Life  drew  him  to  a  close, 
In  wakeless  sleep  they  sought  repose; 
Each,  from  the  other,  laid  afar, 
To  tune  of  Fate's  pathetic  lyre. 

O  hearts  that  love,  let  fam'ly  ties, 
Nor  naught  besides,  between  arise, 
But  claim  your  own,  nor  know  the  wage 
No  other  claim  can  e'er  assuage! 

May  6,  1905. 

THE  SUSTAINING  ANGEL 

Partakers  of  life  that  mortals  know, 

The  present  ye  have  —  the  future's  before; 

The  past  is  gone,  and  many  bemoan 

The  use  they've  made  of  the  days  that  are  flown. 

17 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


And  yet  they  mean  sometime  to  reform, 
For  vicious  man  in  his  wildest  career 
In  hours  resolves,  and  the  breast  grows  warm, 
At  thoughts  which  bring  to  the  eye  a  tear. 

Sometimes  there  falls  'cross  the  way  he  goes 
A  whisper  that  speaks  of  peace  and  repose, 
And  yielding  him  up  to  this  kind  friend, 
His  wayward  ways  he  seeks  to  amend. 
The  call  he  had  heard,  but  in  his  despair 
Had  deem'd  it  a  demon  to  mock  his  plight, 
And  fled  at  its  sound  as  the  hound-chased  hare; 
But  still  it  came  —  dismissing  his  night. 

Within  the  dark  walls  of  a  prison  cell 

An  innocent  lay  and  thought  it  was  well; 

Griev'd  law  had  ordain'd  his  life  should  redress 

A  crime  which  the  actor  did  not  confess. 

I  say,  to  the  last,  by  unseen  arms  upborne, 

He  felt  that  the  right  must  finally  win; 

His  friends  gave  him  joy  where  they  meant  to  mourn, 

For  the  guilty  came  to  answer  his  sin. 

Ye  toilers  whose  efforts  have  been  your  best, 

Ye  living  and  ye  who  have  gone  to  your  rest, 

How  could  you  struggle  on,  nor  pause, 

When  your  labors  met  not  man's  applause  ? 

Did  a  voice  seem  to  say  some  coming  age 

Of  sounder  thought  would  adjudge  their  worth,  — 

18 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


Would  place  your  names  on  the  rolls  of  the  sage, 
And  crown  your  deeds  'round  the  fam'ly  hearth  ? 

A  conqueror  comes  whose  name  is  Fate, 

On  whose  wild  caprices  all  things  wait; 

But  only  a  moment  last  his  defeats, 

In  vict'ry  he  trembles  —  he  turns  —  and  retreats! 

O  bosom!  as  fast  as  he  wrecks  thy  domain, 

And  strews  long  thy  track  some  grief, 

Hope  e'er  is  nigh  to  whisper  again, 

"Some  future  will  bring  you  desired  relief." 

Whate'er  disappointment  bedims  man's  dreams,  — 

A  common  fruition  that  follows,  it  seems; 

At  thy  sweet  sigh  away  floats  the  cloud, 

The  soul  flings  off  its  impotent  shroud, 

The  temporal  day  becomes  less  a  charm 

To  dazzle  the  soul  and  rob  it  of  life; 

At  last  we  flee  from  the  false  and  its  harm, 

To  the  perfect  joy,  whose  parent  is  strife! 

Sweet  Angel  of  Hope,  when  Life's  light  fades, 
And  flickers  out  in  the  Vale's  deep  shades, 
Make  haste  thy  bark  to  the  Evening  Shore, 
As  a  final  service  to  row  me  o'er; 
Thy  cheering  presence  no  more  I'll  need, 
To  caress  a  wound  or  banish  a  sigh, 
Where  spirits  ne'er  wake  to  pain  and  bleed, 
And  the  days  of  repining  for  aye  are  by. 

May  1 6,  1905. 
19 


WHEN  I  AM  GONE 

Some  future  day,  when  I  am  gone, 

I  wonder  will  the  world  go  on; 

Or  if  its  course  and  mission  will 

Abruptly  stop  nor  be  fulfilled  ? 

I  would  not  have  all  men  to  know 

This  probably  impending  woe, 

Which  might  disturb  their  peace  of  mind, 

And  thus  become  in  me  unkind. 

So  I  dismiss  the  serious  thought, 

For  much  of  worry  has  it  wrought; 

And  try  to  hope  that  after  all 

Through  space  will  swing  the  same  old  ball. 

I  pray  the  dwellers  on  its  face 

Will  make  of  it  a  better  place, 

And  may  the  years  that  outlive  me 

Advance  the  race  in  harmony! 

Methinks  when  in  the  tomb  I  lay, 
I'll  wake  to  hear  what  men  will  say, — 
To  hear  the  false  who  played  me  friends, 
As  if  deceptive  were  my  lens, 
Unfold  the  weak,  dispar'ging  traits, 
So  passive  at  the  hands  of  Fates, 
Right  char'tibly  my  deeds  to  do, 
As  grants  the  weakest  point  of  view. 
20 


BY  BERNARD  GRADT 


And  yet  are  they  whose  lives  touched  mine 
And  both  were  blessed  and  brighter  shined; 
Some  kindly  act  may  be  was  done, 
Unseen  to  eyes  of  most  who  run, 
And  He  who  knows  how  best  to  praise 
The  things  that  round  out  earthly  days, 
A  gallant  hero  took  me  down, 
And  placed  a  jewel  in  my  crown. 

So  build  your  monuments,  old  Earth, 
To  speak  thy  sons  of  manly  worth,  — 
The  few  with  deeds  by  chance  revealed; 
But  leave  unsung  the  larger  field. 
Content  are  they  none  can  deny 
Their  obelisks  will  be  as  high, 
When  dawns,  at  last,  adjustment's  day, 
And  each  receive  their  righteous  pay. 

May  17,  1905. 

WOULD  YOU? 

I  would  not  wound  a  heart  —  would  you  ? 
'Tis  such  an  unkind  thing  to  do; 
A  heart  with  brightly  burning  fires, 
That  burn  when  Death  itself  expires; 
And  whose  enduring  flame  began 
When  you  stooped  nigh  —  its  glow  to  fan; 
A  heart  that  knew  you  but  in  trust, 
O  better  had  the  sword  been  thrust! 

21 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


We  long  may  live  and  cause  much  pain, 
Our  crimes  may  make  our  days  a  stain, 
May  cause  a  loving  God  to  frown, 
And  cast  our  ransom'd  spirits  down; 
But  scarce  can  they  attain  a  place 
That  will  redound  to  less  of  grace 
Than  slighting  thought  or  word  or  deed, 
For  which  some  heart  will  keenly  bleed. 

I  hold  it  equal  to  the  worst, 
Immortal  man  can  call  accursed! 
And  sooner  had  I  led  the  French, 
To  Moscow's  fires  they  could  not  quench, 
And  let  them  perish  in  the  snows, 
While  fleeing  from  the  city's  woes, 
Than  plunge  in  tears  a  heart  of  love,  — 
The  sweetest  gift  all  else  above! 

The  trait'rous  Greek  for  whom  there  died 

Leonidas  —  fair  Sparta's  pride! 

And  all  his  band  of  faithful  souls, 

One  infamy  no  more  claim  holds! 

And  through  the  ages  I  might  tell 

Of  ghastly  deeds  that  would  repel, 

Yet  be  unable  to  impart 

A  parallel  to  wound  of  heart. 

May  19,  1905. 


22 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


A  RESCUED  FLY 

Why  came  ye  here  without  your  sphere  ? 

But  man  oft  goes  to  court  his  woes, 

And  should  not  blame  in  thee  the  same. 

Thy  brother  now  just  bit  my  brow, 

But  I'll  not  by  and  see  thee  die; 

From  treach'rous  cup  I  bear  thee  up. 

He  who  made  me  also  did  thee, 

And  me  He  gave  life  past  the  grave; 

Beyond  the  Earth  ye  know  no  birth. 

I,  too,  once  fell,  and  Christ  beheld 

My  helpless  state,  and  ere  'twas  late, 

With  outstretched  arm  drew  me  from  harm; 

But  His  life  gave  my  own  to  save. 

In  saving  thine  I  give  not  mine; 

I  know  no  price  or  sacrifice, 

No  thorns,  no  nails,  no  midnight  wails; 

No  blood,  no  tear,  no  sepulcher! 

I  am  not  safe;  at  times  I  chafe, 

On  danger's  brink  to  stoop  and  drink; 

If  some  swift  tide  should  reach  my  side 

And  bear  me  where  no  help  is  near, 

As  this  poor  fly  so  should  I  die. 

But  I  believe  He  will  relieve 

My  fainting  soul  where'er  it  roll. 

May  26,  1905. 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


BLEST  OF  A  WOMAN'S  LOVE 

Me,  in  the  gift  of  your  Love  do  you  bless, 
Till  of  the  measure  no  words  can  express; 
Scarce  can  I  b'lieve  I  am  honored  thus  much, 
What  in  myself  such  a  passion  could  touch  ? 

Know  ye  the  heart  you  have  given  to  me  ? 
Think  to  another  it  never  will  flee  ? 
Woman  is  fickle,  and  often  unwise, 
Calling  as  Love  a  brief  fancy  that  dies. 

Yet  I  am  willing  to  take  it  as  true, 
B'lieve  thou  art  guileless  as  morning's  own  dew; 
For  you've  agreed  to  embark  in  my  keeping, 
Taste  of  my  joy  and  indulge  in  my  weeping. 

Kingdoms  of  Earth,  I  prefer  me  to  rule 
Realm  of  her  heart  though  I  sat  on  a  stool, 
Than  to  be  wielder  of  powers  you  hold, 
If  at  the  cost  of  her  life's  least  control. 

Riches  ne'er  smiled  long  the  track  of  my  years 
Ere  she  bestowed  the  rich  love  that  is  hers; 
Nor  can  you  rank  with  the  fortunes  of  men, 
Wealth  of  the  type  that  is  mine  to  the  end. 

Thou  who  hast  sent  such  a  treasure  my  way 
May  I  protect  it  from  going  astray, 

24 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


Feed  it  on  food  that  its  nature  doth  crave, 
Keep  it  from  knowing  transfer  —  or  the  grave. 

Blasts  of  the  North  not  again  can  ye  harm, 
Sun  of  the  Summer  become  over  warm; 
Ills  have  known  flight  on  the  wings  of  some  dove, 
Left  me  secure  in  a  woman's  deep  Love. 

June  II,  1905. 

YOUR  KISS  ABIDETH 

Dear,  do  you  mind  that  kiss  you  implanted, 

In  the  beautiful  days  that  are  gone, 
When  parting  I  stood  there  enchanted, 

And  dreamed  of  a  time  too  delicious  to  dawn  ? 

A  spirited  kiss!  a  passionate  meeting 

Of  lips  that  united  in  a  holy  embrace; 
With  a  rapture  unwonted  my  heart  was  beating, 

And  deeply  the  blush  stole  up  to  your  face. 

Just  to  tease,  your  head  you  turned  to  the  side, 
By  way  of  protecting  the  loveliest  of  portals, 

And  again  and  again  my  efforts  denied, 

At  last  to  resign  most  submissive  of  mortals. 

And  oh,  the  sweet  vision  my  heart  conjured  up! 

It  hallowed  the  future  and  gladdened  its  years; 
But  cold-hearted  Fate  changed  the  draft  of  my  cup, 

And  where  I  supped  nectar  has  left  me  but  tears. 

25 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


In  your  beauty  and  grace  I  knew  a  delight 
Which  scarcely  again  to  my  heart  shall  unfold, 

And  worshiped  as  truly  as  ever  did  knight 
In  the  lost  and  chivalrous  ages  of  old. 

But  reasons  so  sacred  my  heart  them  must  hold, 
Unkindly  enshrouded  this  dream  of  our  bliss; 

And  yet  till  in  Death  they  are  rigid  and  cold, 
My  lips  shall  repine  for  another  such  kiss. 

June  15,  1905. 

IF  THE  HEART  BE  GOOD 

The  years  have  reflected  this  truth  to  my  soul  — 

That  men,  at  the  best,  are  creatures  of  mood; 
Oft  given  to  skirt  Equanimity's  bowl, 

From  the  dish  of  Life's  rubs  to  partake  their  food. 
In  vain  may  they  strive  not  to  yield  the  fight, 

When  trifling  events  annoy  the  good  will, 
For  who  is  strong  when  Perverseness  would  blight  ? 

Alas,  that  his  reign  should  govern  us  still! 

Since  Eden  no  more  is  mortal's  sweet  lot, 

On  the  calmest  soul  some  ripples  stir; 
The  serenest  blood  will  in  times  grow  hot, 

To  prove  of  the  animal  man  is  a  share. 
The  wounds  he  inflicts  when  his  pets  inthrall, 

Are  happ'lessly  born  of  a  happiless  mood; 
I  think  we  would  learn  to  forgive  them  all 

If,  searching  the  heart,  we  found  it  was  good. 
26 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


When  our  friends  forget  sometimes  to  be  sweet, 

And  recklessly  do  unlovely  things, 
If  we  will  recall  each  manly  feat, 

And  not  fight  back  —  their  moods  will  take  wings. 
I  hold  it  is  wrong  to  condemn  as  mean 

The  lives  that  offend  while  swayed  by  a  mood; 
And  odorous  flowers  we  Pilgrims  might  glean, 

In  forgetting  a  hurt  when  the  heart  is  good. 

We  cannot  afford  in  a  life  so  short, 

Our  tempers  to  lose  for  a  moment's  length, 
Embitt'ring  the  days  that  should  be  fraught 

In  gathering  Love  and  Beauty  and  Strength; 
For  like  unto  winds  that  disturb  some  bay, 

And  seduce  the  native  calm  for  awhile, 
Will  the  strife  nursed  of  men  fly  away, 

And  the  grave  give  back  the  buried  smile. 

June  22,  1905. 

LEST  IT  DEPART 

0  Death,  thou  dread  retainer  on  Time, 
Thou  whom  I've  shunned  —  I  loudly  call; 
To-night  will  explore  thy  wildest  hall. 
Too  sweet  this  hour  —  too  near  sublime! 

1  feel  some  pain  its  pleasure  will  mar, 
And  give  it  the  flight  of  a  falling  star. 

Without  it  care  I  not  to  live 

The  days  vain  memory  would  bring, 

27 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


To  which  the  merest  shades  could  cling 

Of  what  its  presence  once  did  give. 

I'd  fly  a  future  immersed  of  tears,  — 

Of  suff'ring  for  that  which  no  more  appears. 

I    trust  to  chance  no  duplicate, 

Lest  it  should  die,  I'd  die  me  first, 

O  Death,  I  adore  thee  whom  I've  cursed! 

Importune  thee  lest  thou  be  too  late; 

And  if  e'er  kind,  as  some  would  say, 

From  this  sweet  scene  enfold  me  away. 

But  hark!     I  hear  an  Angel  say, 

"Thou  timorous  soul  it  may  not  be, 

From  Life's  mingled  lot  thou  canst  not  flee, 

Upon  its  stage  each  part  must  play! 

Nor  do  joys  bloom  forever  of  life, 

Thy  spirit  must  needs  be  known  to  strife. 

"  Tis  wicked  to  wish  for  premature  Death,  — 

Afraid  of  what  the  future  hath 

To  strew  along  the  unknown  path, 

Afraid  regrets  will  tinge  its  breath; 

—  To  lull  the  heart  with  its  rapture  at  noon, 

Though  Mercy  demand  indefinite  swoon. 

"Of  Life  'tis  apart  —  go  meet  thy  fate; 
A  sorrow  but  addeth  a  deeper  tone, 
In  touching  a  life  where  joys  have  blown, 
28 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


And  beneath  its  cross  springs  much  that's  great; 

Live  on,  and  discipline  thy  soul 

If  it  stays  or  flees  —  this  joy  you  hold." 

July  2,  1905. 

DISSOLUTION 

Some  morn  my  pen  I'll  lay  aside, 
Among  these  scenes  no  more  to  bide, 
Will  bid  farewell  unto  my  Muse, 
And  mingle  with  the  dust  and  dews; 
That  which  struck  awe  to  eyes  of  men, 
The  meanest  worm  shall  conquer  then, 
And  passions  which  my  bosom  swell, 
The  falling  clods  shall  sound  your  knell. 

And  then  my  Soul  so  long  confined, 

And  made  to  dwell  'mid  passions  wild, 
These  alien  cords  shall  cease  to  bind 

Your  life  to  things  that  would  beguile; 
Then  thou  shalt  know  thy  true  abode, 

Which  in  thy  visions  thou  hast  seen, 
When  throwing  off  thy  mortal  load 

Thou  dar'dst  to  peep  beyond  the  screen. 

Yet  there  be  creeds  which  men  would  claim 

Are  founded  on  the  truest  rock, 
Supported  of  Christ's  holy  name, 

Whose  attributes  they  grossly  mock. 

29 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


They  tell  us  some  immortal  Souls 

Shall  be  forever  burned  of  fire, 
While  some  shall  reach  the  Heavenly  goals, 

And  bliss  eternally  acquire. 

I  feel,  if  waking  'mid  that  weal, 

I  find  some  whom  I  love  amiss, 
By  whose  fair  sides  I  might  not  kneel, 

And  claim  them  with  a  long-lost  kiss,  — 
That  in  some  hopeless  other  state, 

Where  nothing  reigns  but  keen  despair, 
Their  paths  had  known  an  opening  gate,  — 

No  fullest  joy  could  be  my  share! 

For  all  their  creeds  I  not  believe 

That  God  thus  deals  with  Souls  of  men; 
His  Love  is  mighty  to  reprieve, 

And  He  will  exercise  it  then. 
We  all  are  creatures  of  His  will, 

And  equal  in  His  eyes  appear; 
The  Love  that  made  will  keep  us  still, 

And  no  discrimination  share. 

July  5,  1905. 


IF  EACH  ONE  DID  HIS  PART 

If  each  one  did  his  separate  part 
There'd  be  no  overburdened  heart, 
No  brother  sink  beside  the  road, 

30 


BY  BERNARD  GRADT 


Because  he  bore  a  double  load. 

This  would  mean  duty  to  all  men 

As  duty  comes  within  our  ken, 

And  if  her  laws  we  did  not  break, 

To  few  regrets  our  hearts  would  wake. 

There  is  that  in  us  which  would  do 

This  honest  part  if  we  were  true; 

Man  erreth  not  through  lack  of  sight, 

In  knowing  which  of  ways  is  right,  — 

Because  he  stoppeth  not  to  think 

Of  what  great  purpose  he's  a  link, 

Which  has  a  pressure  to  sustain 

As  great  as  any  in  the  chain. 

But  for  a  blunder  some  one  made 

There  ne'er  had  charged  the  Light  Brigade; 

That  fatal  day  of  Waterloo, 

When  great  Napoleon  withdrew, 

Might  not  have  been  had  Blucher's  speed 

Been  equal  to  the  hour's  need. 

'Tis  true  this  part  no  fame  may  bring, 

And  we  may  court  its  charming  ring;  — 

Earth's  honors  are  but  fleeting  things, 

To  which  no  lasting  flavor  clings,  — 

As  fickle  as  they  who  bestow 

The  flow'ry  garland  on  thy  brow, 

And  may  be  ere  its  blossoms  pale, 

Thy  right  to  wear  it  will  assail. 

My  wish  would  be  to  do  my  share, 

No  matter  what  its  burdens  were, 

31 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


So  none  might  weep  or  suffer  pain 
Because  my  yoke  on  them  had  lain; 
And  dying  bed  will  softer  lay, 
If  thus  I  close  my  earthly  day. 

August  12,  1905. 

WOMAN 

A  woman  has  inspired  my  best  wrought  deeds, 
And  any  heights  I've  climbed  I  climbed  for  her; 

Her  heart  have  found  the  sweetest  of  all  creeds, 
To  win  her  smile  to  me  was  action's  spur, 

No  eloquence  of  man  like  it  could  stir! 

And  yet  when  she  an  evil  angel  came, 

My  soul  forgot  all  good  it  ever  knew; 
If  she  could  sin  I  scarce  could  see  the  shame, 

And  sweet  the  sin  I  stooped  with  her  to  woo,  — 
I  sometimes  think  almost  too  sweet  to  rue. 

Had  I  to  good  account  the  moments  turned, 
That  in  her  witching  presence  I  have  spent, 

I  know  that  higher  heights  I  might  have  earned,  — 
But  doubt  if  I  would  be  the  more  content; 

And  what  I  thus  have  missed  do  not  repent. 

I  pray  that  she  will  always  come  my  way, 
And  shape  my  life  as  she  has  heretofore, 
And  I  will  share  with  her  my  fullest  day, 

3* 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


And  if  I  reach  a  star  she  too  shall  soar; 
With  her  I  have  no  fear  of  what's  before. 

O  woman!  when  I  close  my  earthly  days, 
May  thy  sweet  tones  be  last  to  greet  my  ear, 

Let  thy  fair  face  adorn  my  dying  gaze, 
Until  the  gath'ring  shadows  it  shall  blur, 

And  Heaven  dawns;  —  than  thee  alone  more  fair! 

August  19,  1905. 

AFFAIRS  OF  THE  HEART 

If  affairs  of  the  heart  run  smoothly  along, 
What  a  diff'rence  it  makes  in  this  life  that  we  live! 
How  it  lightens  the  tasks  that  the  hours  give, 

And  makes  the  world  seem  a  bower  of  song. 

For  who  may  be  sad  when  loved  and  in  love  ? 

Are  not  the  emotions  all  subject  to  one  ? 

Dependent  on  which  as  the  planets  the  sun, 
If  the  life  of  the  heart  in  harmony  move. 

But  Love  is  bound  by  no  law  to  stay 
And  control  the  passions  productive  of  woe, 
Unless  of  himself  full  measure  he  know; 

In  all  the  world  he  takes  no  other  pay. 

Let  Love  depart,  and  the  ballast  power  is  gone, 
The  scenes  it  softened  are  strenuous  now, 
And  droops  the  head  that  disdained  to  bow; 

Like  a  ship  without  rudder,  the  heart  flounders  on. 

33 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


'Tis  this  —  if  a  wish  you'd  have  from  me, 
May  ever  the  things  of  thy  heart  go  well;  — 
May  Love  therein  full  largely  dwell, 

And  the  burdens  of  life  will  rest  lightly  on  thee. 

September  3,  1905. 
THE  HARVEST  OF  DELAY 

Not  even  Sleep  will  come  and  save 

My  soul  awhile  from  pain, 
And  call  it  from  its  fond  hope's  grave, 

Where  ling'ring  is  in  vain. 
I  followed  where  Ambition  led, 

And  bade  me  win  the  world, 
And  while  I  rushed  on  in  his  tread 

I  loved  a  winsome  girl. 

I  spoke  no  word  of  love  to  her; 

I  meant  to  make  it  known, 
And  little  dreamed  my  doom  so  near, 

The  chance  so  nearly  flown! 
While  I  was  winning  what  is  naught, 

Unless  her  love  adorn, 
A  wiser  one  the  rosebud  sought, 

And  left  me  but  the  thorn! 

She  is  another's;  yet  I  feel 

My  love  for  her  is  fresh  and  strong, 

34 


BY  BERNARD  GRADT 


And  nightly  when  in  pray'r  I  kneel, 

I  wish  her  life  a  song. 
It  may  be  wrong  to  love  her  now, 

If  so,  I  sin  each  day; 
Alas!  two  hearts  to  one  should  bow, 

For  one  in  grief  must  pay. 


September  10,  1905. 


THIS  WORK 


It  is  a  joy 

Which  should  alloy, 
The  sternest  toil  we  meet  to-day, 

To  know  it  true, 

This  work  we  do 
Is  unreceptive  to  decay. 

For  good  or  ill 

It  ever  will 
A  certain  cognizance  receive; 

For  action  live 

And  char'cter  give 
To  deeds  the  future  will  achieve. 

There  lived  a  race 
Whose  work  we  trace 
In  the  time-enduring  pyramid; 
Some  unborn  day 

35 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Will  homage  pay 
To  us,  whose  work  no  less  can  be  hid. 

These  hands  that  rear 

Must  soon  forbear, 
And  fold  themselves  in  final  pause; 

But  what  they  raise 

Abides  all  days  — 
Immune  from  Time's  ephem'ral  laws! 

All  that  is  wrought 

Is  first  a  thought, 
Within  the  mind  first  had  its  form; 

And  that  is  why 

It  may  not  die, 
For  Death  the  mental  cannot  harm. 

And  men  alone 

By  works  are  known; 
All  we  may  be  in  them  shall  show: 

And  truth  they  tell, 

If  ill  or  well, 
Their  measure  we  cannot  forego. 

September  17,  1905. 

WHY  NOT  LET  IT  SLUMBER 

Why  should  you  come  my  way  and  stir  afresh 
The  fires  of  that  all  most  extinguished  passion, 

36 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


Which  through  these  months  I've  labored  hard  to  crush, 
And  teach  the  painful  lesson  of  submission  ? 

Full  long  I  starved  it  and  deemed  it  must  be  dead; 
Ah!  what  else  can  endure  such  time  without  food  ? 

As  tenacious  as  Byron's,  I  find  it  had  not  fled; 
By  a  single  glance  its  vigor  was  renewed. 

Only  a  look  —  what  power  could  it  yield 

To  add  fresh  fuel  to  the  smoldering  flame, 
Which  deep  in  my  heart  I  thought  I  had  concealed, 

In  a  stubborn  effort  to  defeat  its  claim  ? 
We  are  told  to  starve  by  way  of  disposition, 

A  passion  to  which  disappointment  is  given, 
But  virtueless  I  hold  the  proffered  prescription,  — 

In  fairness  of  test  its  fallacy  have  proven. 

The  pang  of  hopeless  love  is  that  it  remains 

To  sadden  and  lessen  the  fullest  after  hour;  — 
To  dull  the  ear  to  Music's  noblest  strains, 

Or  blind  the  eye  to  Beauty's  witching  power. 
'Twere  merciful  if  the  heart  could  love  again,  — 

Could  forget  by  whom  its  passion  was  undone, 
And  bow  to  one  of  the  many  in  the  train 

Of  hearts  its  fervor  could  have  easily  won. 

And  yet  that  life  will  aspire  to  approach  the  worth 
Of  a  love  the  heart  has  entertained  in  vain, 

And  the  new  ideals  which  thus  acquire  their  birth 
Must  surely  prove  the  nature's  gen'ral  gain; 

37 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


So  Love  cannot  be  fruitless;  it  must  reward 

Whoever  lets  it  enter  in  his  heart; 
From  its  encounter  we  may  turn  away  scarred, 

But  of  the  Universe  a  nobler  part! 

September  28,  1905. 

TILL  I  MET  YOU 

Not  always  seemed  the  world  so  bright  as  now  — 
There  was  a  time  when  days  were  much  the  same, 

Beyond  whose  tasks  to  soothe  my  weary  brow 
No  real  sufficient  object  could  I  name. 

To  dull  existence  I  had  learned  to  bow 
And  thought  my  heart  incapable  of  flame; 

But,  dear,  there  came  a  day  when  I  met  you, 

And  life  addressed  herself  to  me  anew. 

I  had  not  lived  till  then,  for  life  pertains 
To  days  whose  passing  records  growth  of  soul; 

I  knew  you  but  to  strive  for  higher  planes, 
And  purpose  came  to  combat  sin's  control; 

My  heart  attuned  itself  to  joyous  strains, 

And  moments  breathed  with  interest  manifold. 

O,  had  I  known  you  earlier,  those  years 

Had  not  been  wasted,  dear  —  not  shed  these  tears! 

I  know  if  love  for  you  had  touched  me  not, 

Much  less  of  good  my  nature  had  revealed; 
I  should  have  striven  less  to  raise  my  lot; 

38 


BY  BERNARD  GRADT 


To  best  in  me  has  God,  through  you,  appealed; 
And  my  old  self  lies  buried  on  the  spot 

Whence  thou  appeared;  and  most  its  wounds  are  healed. 
The  sum  of  all  the  years  my  past  life  knew 
Meant  less  than  one,  since  I  met  you. 

October  17,  1905. 


WHY  I'M  SAD  TO-DAY 

Why  am  I  sad  to-day  ?  canst  thou  not  guess, 
Dear  Evelyn  ?  for  thou  art  good  at  such, 

And  knowest  somewhat  this  moody  heart,  beside; 
Whose  varied  feelings  I've  confided  much, 
Because  a  common  cord  they  seemed  to  touch; 

Then  try,  and  if  thou  fail  I  will  confess. 

"  Perhaps  some  dreamed-of  fame  has  been  denied  r 

Some  friend  proved  faithless  to  the  name  ? 
The  motive  of  some  impulse  been  belied  ? 

Or  does  that  painful  knowledge  urge  its  claim  — 
Of  something  loved  which  cannot  long  abide  ?" 

'Tis  that;  I'm  sad  that  summer's  end  is  nigh, 

And  though  she  comes  again  with  charms  as  great 

I'm  not  consoled,  for  not  as  now  this  heart  will  be; 
Some  freshness  shall  be   lost  beneath  the  weight 
Of  seriousness  that  fading  hopes  create. 

And  when  she  spreads  again  before  my  eye 
Some  loved  ones  may  be  lost  to  time  and  me, 

39 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Whose  presence  gave  a  charm  to  dullest  things, 
Or  heightened  that  of  flower,  sky,  or  tree; 

And  thus  the  joy  I  find  in  what  she  brings 
Shall  nevermore  attain  the  same  degree. 

October  27,  1905. 
BURNING  YOUR  LETTERS 

Too  sweet,  too  tender,  to  burn,  are  they,  — 
These  words  you  penned  in  fancy's  sway, 
Thinking  close  to  the  heart  they  lay; 

And  yet  are  they  but  painful  fetters 
Of  a  ling'ring  passion  that  should  be  dead,  — 
That  should,  as  the  summer  that  gave  it,  have  fled, 
And  this  is  a  source  on  which  it  has  fed,  — 

These  false  and  vainly-treasured  letters! 

Once  more  let  me  read  them,  once  more  their  lines  trace, 
As  we  turn  again  to  the  sleeper's  face, 
Ere  the  grave  engulfs  its  beauty  and  grace; 

Thus  would  I  view  once  more  these  letters. 
And  calmly  then  will  I  watch  the  flame 
Devour  your  thoughts,  and  even  your  name! 
Nor  any  more  your  fickleness  blame, 

But  forget  it  all  in  the  fate  of  these  fetters. 

November  17,  1905. 
TO  MATTIE 

Most  lovely  didst  thou  appear  to-night, 
But  not  for  me  those  eyes  shone  bright, 
40 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


As  if  'twere  Love  that  gave  them  light; 

And  yet  not  Love  —  since  your  fickle  heart 

Could  scarce  be  pierced  by  Cupid's  dart, 

But  finds  delight  in  the  empty  game 

To  which  flirtation  owes  its  name. 

More  beautiful  thou  than  Juliet! 

Whose  charms  by  thine  had  quickly  set; 

And  hadst  thou  been  a  Capulet's  guest, 

With  thee  his  suit  had  Romeo  prest, 

And  the  great  love  tale  of  Shakespearian  fame 

Had  made  thy  own  its  heroine's  name. 

But  I  forget : —  scarce  were  it  fair 

Such  varied  hearts  to  thus  compare, 

And  with  you  there,  that  tragic  end 

To  their  young  lives  had  never  been; 

His  love  you  had  taken  not  to  re-give, 

Nor  Juliet  had  ceased  to  live. 

I  wish  you  had  been  there,  then  I 

Haid  saved  myself  full  many  a  sigh. 

Fair  Lady,  success  I  give  to  thy  art, 

But  weep  for  the  day  when  thy  surfeited  heart 

Shall  tire  of  its  game  and  seek  in  vain 

To  arouse  a  feeling  of  a  tender  strain. 

If  then  I  be  near,  but  let  me  know, 

If  comfort  I  can  bring  to  thy  woe, 

But  alas!  I  fear  a  heart  thus  waste, 

For  the  joys  of  life  has  lost  all  taste. 

November  18,  1905. 
41 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


USING  TO-DAY 

Another  day!  oh,  may  I  strive, 

While  yet  it  stays  to  be  alive,  — 

To  waste  no  more  the  pregnant  hours 

By  trifling  with  my  various  powers, 

Allotted  me  to  cultivate  and  use, 

And  not  to  stifle  by  abuse. 

Some  days  were  lost  before  I  learned 

What  energies  within  me  burned; 

I  longed  for  strength  to  accomplish  things, 

While  in  me  slept  the  hidden  springs 

Of  force,  untapped;  —  enough  to  dispose 

Of  any  task  life  might  disclose. 

As  the  cocoon  bursts  at  length  his  shell, 

So  man  throws  off  his  lethargic  spell, 

And  to-day  is  here!  and  I  am  strong 

To  face  whate'er  it  brings  along. 

To  know  how  to  use  it  —  is  knowledge  supreme; 

The  solution  of  life's  problem,  I  deem. 

It  contains  some  needs  so  very  great, 

A  morrow  cannot  compensate; 

A  word  to-day  may  urge  some  on 

When  from  their  bosoms  hope  has  gone,  — 

May  relieve  the  heart  that  breaks  to-morrow 

Beneath  the  burden  of  its  sorrow. 

The  wretch  whose  deeds  had  cast  him  down, 

Might  not  repose  beneath  yon  mound, 

If  I  had  stooped  and  helped  to  raise 

42 


BY  BERNARD  GRADT 


Him  from  the  level  of  his  ways; 
But  all  the  tears  I  now  may  shed 
Shall  call  him  not  from  his  lowly  bed. 
It  passes  but  once  along  my  way, 
Then  let  me  make  it  all  I  may,  — 
Deferring  not  its  tasks  till  to-morrow, 
For  days  from  days  should  never  borrow, 
Since  each  is  too  full  of  its  own  affairs 
To  make  up  what  another  defers. 

November  28,  1905. 

THE  POET 

Do  you  wonder  he  bends  above  the  flower  so  long, 
Nor  mindeth  the  presence  of  the  passing  throng; 

Or  what  can  so  win  him  in  the  song  of  the  bird, 
Whose  melody  no  cord  in  thy  heart  has  stirred; 

Why  steals  he  away  to  walk  by  the  murmuring  shore, 
As  though  its  waves  imparted  some  tangible  lore; 

What  charm  he  can  see  in  the  ruin'd  and  broken  arch 
Which  perished  nations  rear'd  to  Glory's  march; 

In  musing  on  which  his  eyes  with  tears  are  filled, 
And  the  heart  throbs  wildly  and  will  not  be  stilled  ? 

Thou  canst  perceive  no  cause  for  such  emotion 
As  oft  perturbs  his  soul  like  winds  the  ocean. 

43 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


In  the  lowly  life  of  insects  int'rest  he  finds, 
You  deem  it  but  an  idle  employment  of  minds. 

So  the  author  of  the  Chambered  Nautillus  discerns 
Material  for  a  poem  of  deepest  concerns; 

From  the  nature  of  this  strange  denizen  of  the  sea 
He  gathered  a  lesson  of  immortality! 

On  the  stars  of  heaven  thou  hast  seen  him  gaze, 
As  though  his  soul  would  mingle  with  their  rays; 

And  in  such  abstract  moments  o'er  his  face 
Unwonted  expression  thou  hast  seemed  to  trace, 

As  if  of  Earth  he  ceased  awhile  to  be 
And  held  communion  with  Infinity. 

In  fact  a  creature  so  differing  from  you, 

In  vain  you  have  tried  his  nature  to  construe. 

Physical  type  pronounces  you  akin, 
But  oh,  how  opposite  the  life  within! 

Needs  on  his  soul  in  those  hours  of  musing  wait, 
Transcending  thy  power  to  appreciate. 

You  may  have  deem'd  him  alone  in  his  moments  apart 
From  the  contact  of  man,  —  if  so,  mistaken  thou  art. 

44 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


A  spirit  pervades  those  spots  where  he  seems  alone, 
And  gives  them  a  life  essential  to  his  own. 

He  is  no  less  than  a  favor'd  child  of  the  Muse, 
And  bathes  his  soul  in  her  refreshing  dews; 

Who  lifts  his  eyes  beyond  this  passing  scene, 
To  catch  a  glimpse  of  Heaven's  fadeless  sheen. 

So  let  him  dream  —  for  lowly  Earth  may  rise 

On  wings  of  some  his  thoughts  till  it  cleave  the  skies. 

December  13,  1905. 

WHAT  IS  MY  LIFE? 

What  is  my  life  ?     I  have  not  your  love;  — 

What  were  all  the  treasure  of  the  Earth  beside  ? 

To  me  it  could  no  blessing  prove, 
With  this  one  gift  denied. 

What  can  it  mean  but  a  weary  flight 

Of  empty  years  ?  whose  raven  wings  are  all  too  slow 
In  bringing  on  that  unconscious  Night, 

Whose  kindly  touch  shall  lull  my  woe. 

In  vain  your  sun  shines  bright,  O  Day! 

Upon  my  head;  or  your  sweet-scented  zephyrs  blow; 
In  vain  you  spring,  O  flowers  of  May! 

Though  once  I  loved  you  so! 

But  ah!  since  then  a  fairer  form 

Has  filled  my  eye  and  left  no  room  for  aught  beside; 

45 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Forgive  my  heart!  'tis  not  less  warm 
Than  then,  but  solely  occupied 

By  one  less  mindful  of  me  than  you; 

Yet  won  me  from  you  —  and  all  that  e'er  could  please 
Ere  its  beauty  met  my  view, 

To  be  the  shrine  of  my  loyal  knees. 

O  could  I  return  to  that  olden  time 

Before  my  heart  had  narrowed  the  orbit  of  its  love! 
And  barred  the  portal  to  joy's  clime, 

By  fixing  one  object  therein  to  move.  — 

When  people  and  things  could  win  its  affection, 

And  fill  each  passing  day  with  more  for  which  to  live, 

And  just  beyond  that  Present's  benediction 
Stood  the  future,  with  so  much  to  give! 

But  one  bright  dream  had  not  then  come 

To  eclipse  the  rest,  and  then  —  yes,  then  —  itself  to  fade; 
Whose  very  conception  was  fraught  with  doom! 

What  did  I,  Eros,  this  curse  should  be  laid  ? 

January  I,  1906. 

DAY  BY  DAY 

Gaining  a  little  day  by  day, 

In  the  way  that  leads  to  purer  living, 

Despite  these  lusting  bonds  of  clay, 
And  all  the  soul's  arrayed  misgiving. 

46 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


Subduing  self  and  its  attributes, 
Which  sadly  hinder  man's  advance, 

And  feed  him  on  their  bitter  fruits, 

What  time  he  yields  to  their  fatal  trance. 

Learning  pursuit  of  baser  things 

But  wakes  in  the  heart  it  pleased,  disgust, 
Which  resolves  itself  into  timely  wings, 

On  which  we  mount  above  our  lust; 

But  by  degrees,  as  the  nestling  learns 
To  gently  tempt  the  unknown  air, 

Which  soon  its  strengthened  pinion  spurns, 
As  confidence  replaces  fear. 

Nor  need  is  there  to  despair  because 

At  times  we  mark  not  the  gain  we  make; 

For  'tis  as  true  as  Nature's  laws, 
That  upward  steps  we  daily  take. 

Think  how  slow  the  coral  grows, 

Deep  buried  beneath  the  ocean's  waves, 

And  how  its  beautiful  branches  compose 
A  million  animalcula's  graves; 

Whose  purpose  is  seen  but  in  their  death, 
Which  like  their  life  is  not  in  vain, 

For  when  we  pluck  their  sepulchral  wreath, 
Beauty  and  Art  are  in  the  gain. 

Each  forward  step  —  each  Virtue  acquired, 
Which  marks  the  growth  of  Mind  and  Soul, 

47 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Denotes  some  Passion  at  last  out-warred, 
And  taught  to  submit  its  blighting  control. 

And  thus  like  the  coral  the  temples  we  build 
Are  founded  on  graves  —  on  Passions  subdued; 

With  which  we  warred  until  they  were  killed  — 
Until  we  had  drunk  their  hearts'  best  blood! 

We  will  not  retreat!  but  still  war  on 

And  gain  new  ground  each  coming  day; 

Until  the  Morn  of  our  triumph  shall  dawn, 
And  eternal  peace  succeed  to  the  fray. 

January  IO,  1906. 

PREVIOUS  DISPOSITION 

By  some  cold  critic  I  may  be  reproved, 

Because  full  oft  'twas  Love  my  lyre  has  moved; 

Why  not  dispose  of  him  in  anticipation, 

And  save  him  the  trouble  of  his  declamation  ? 

I  might  bid  him  turn  to  Greece's  lyrical  son  — 

Beloved  of  the  amorous  Muse  —  Anacreon; 

And  note  the  theme  which  did  his  pen  engage, 

And  kindle  with  delight  his  matchless  page; 

'Twas  Lovel  and  hence  the  charm  of  what  he  wrote, 

Whose  accents  down  the  brow  of  ages  float. 

And  Byron's  master  stanzas  charm  us  so, 

Because  they  breathe  with  Passion's  fiery  glow. 

But  for  the  pow'r  of  Love  —  how  sad  to  thee! 

Without  its  richest  verse  the  world  would  be. 

Or  what  writes  Wilcox  in  these  latter  times, 


BY  BERNARD  GRADT 


Comparing  with  her  early  love-born  rhymes  ? 

I  tell  you  they  shall  still  enrapture  the  heart, 

Though  all  her  host  of  didactic  ones  depart! 

The  claims  of  the  Muses  always  best  appeal 

Addressed  to  the  heart;  —  the  source  of  what  we  feel. 

Let  bard  no  more  the  heights  of  Parnassus  ascend, 

When  Love  forgets  with  the  chords  of  his  harp  to  blend! 

For  dull  and  pulseless  and  uncolored  all 

Are  thoughts  the  mind,  free  of  the  heart,  can  call. 

These  respirations  of  my  youthful  pen 

Most  part  are  sentimental;  —  but  what  then  ? 

The  facts  concerning  poesy  all  prove 

The  kind  that  best  can  please  is  that  of  Love. 

Should  my  Muse  again  unfurl  her  wing, 

I  shall,  as  best  I  can,  attempt  to  sing; 

And  though  within  the  heart  the  subject  rise, 

'Tis  well;  —  its  source  I  never  can  despise. 

'January  14,  1906. 

TO  HIS  MAJESTY,  THE  SAFETY-PIN 

Although  we've  been  acquainted  long, 

And  other  themes  my  pen  has  done, 
Not  once  have  I  burst  into  song 

To  count  the  honors  thou  hast  won. 

And  thus  it  is  we  oft  neglect 

To  give  a  word  of  kindly  praise 
To  what  deserves  our  best  respect, 

And  proves  the  stay  of  needy  days. 

49 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Thus  far  I've  lived  a  bach'lor's  life, 
Which  is  of  some  discomforts  cursed, 

But  dawns  its  day  of  deepest  strife 
When  from  their  places  buttons  burst! 

And  oh!  thou  e'er  didst  intervene 
To  save  me  from  embarrassments; — 

Wert  ever  near  to  come  between, 

When  buttons  severed  from  my  pants.  — 

Have  held  me  up  as  best  you  could, 
When  other  friends  have  turned  aside 

From  my  distress,  and  heartless  stood, 
On  whom,  in  thought,  I  had  relied. 

Some  day  I  may  be  married,  and 

Most  likely  will  discard  you  then; 
But  while  I  live  I  never  can 

Forget  how  true  a  friend  you've  been! 

And  this  event,  if  it  transpires, 

May  not  defeat  our  intercourse, 
For  husbands,  if  they  be  not  liars, 

At  times  still  make  thee  their  resource. 

January  1 6,  1906. 

WHAT  A  MAN  SHOULD  GIVE 

A  man  should  give  more  than  merely  a  name 
To  her  who  gives  him  her  heart  and  its  love; 

5° 


BY  BERNARD  GRADT 


To  manhood  he  should  have  established  a  claim 
Sufficient  that  gift's  protection  to  prove. 

His  name  should  be  honored  where  spoken  of  men, 

In  token  of  worth  its  bearer  has  shown 
In  moments  of  trial.     How  behaved  he  then  ? 

With,  the  best  of  his  fellows  held  he  his  own  ? 

Is  he  working  out  some  purpose  in  life 
Whose  end  is  Honor,  Fortune,  or  Fame  ? 

If  so,  thou  art  safe  in  becoming  his  wife 
And  shall  do  well  in  owning  his  name. 

For  his  is  the  way  that  leads  to  the  best 

That  life  can  give  to  the  earnest  soul, 
Which  denies  the  right  on  its  laurels  to  rest 

While  remains  unchallenged  a  higher  goal. 

And  oh,  what  chance  to  develop  the  good 

And  beautiful  traits  thy  nature  reflects, 
And  give  greater  scope  to  thy  womanhood, 

To  consort  with  a  man  a  Lord  of  his  sex! 

The  man  makes  the  name  the  bright  thing  it  may  seem, 
Its  charm  is  not  native  but  simply  a  dower; 

In  him  who  bears  it  exists  the  beam 
Which  reflects  on  his  title  a  grace  and  power. 

Thou  hath  not  gain'd  in  exchanging  thy  name 

For  one  of  a  listless  son  of  the  Earth, 
Who  not  as  yet  has  asserted  his  aim 

To  prove  to  the  world  his  genius  and  worth. 

51 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Then  be  not  content  with  merely  a  name; 

Demand  of  thy  suitor  a  supplement 
Of  worth,  or  promise  of  worth,  with  the  same, 

Before  thou  pitchest  with  him  thy  tent. 

February  4,  1906. 

REJOICE  WITH  ME 

Rejoice  with  me  that  I  am  young! 

As  I  rejoice  with  all  who  are;  — 
With  all  whose  hearts  are  lightly  strung, 

And  quickened  by  an  inward  fire, 
Which  prompts  each  action,  right  or  wrong, 

Of  which  it  stops  not  to  inquire. 
O  careless,  trusting  time  of  youth! 
When  only  heart-throbs  measure  truth. 

O  pardonable  illusion,  thou, 

Which  led  some  men  to  sweetly  dream 

Of  a  hidden  Fount  where  Age  might  bow 
And  bathe,  and  her  lost  youth  redeem; 

But  diff'rent  youth  it  did  endow  — 
Which  knew  no  end  to  her  regime; 

And  Time,  her  fickle  paramour, 

She  spurned,  and  exiled  from  her  shore. 

Alas!  we  know  'twas  but  a  fable,  — 

That  only  prudent  living  can 
Disclose  the  means  by  which  we're  able 

To  stay  this  period  of  man; 

52 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


But  youth  to  prudence  is  a  rebel; 
Then  how  shall  we  apply  the  plan  ? 

0  Youth,  thou  suicide!  be  thou  more  tame; 
By  thy  excesses  thou  devour'st  thy  flame. 

And  now  is  the  glowing  time  of  Love; 

O!  who  shall  spurn  that  time's  strange  power? 
Tho'  fatal  to  future  peace  it  prove, 

Of  all  our  life  'tis  the  sweetest  hour. 
Who  cares  for  love  that  cannot  move 

The  heart  ?  the  kind  which  is  the  dower 
Of  Age,  when  sentiment  is  dead, 
And  the  passionless  mind  controls  instead. 

Small  cares  the  days  can  bring  me  now, 
With  bonny  youth  yet  by  my  side; 

1  deem  no  cloud  shall  dark  this  brow 
While  in  my  heart  she  doth  abide; 

When  I  would  weep,  she  contrives  somehow 

To  circumvent  the  rising  tide, 
And  sends  some  pleasure  to  divert 
The  heart  that  fancied  it  was  hurt. 


April  12,  1906. 


HEART  DESOLATION 

O  for  a  great  love  of  a  great  woman, 
To  enter  my  life  and  reclaim  its  forces 
From  the  nightmare  of  their  lawless  courses, 

53 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


To  a  plane  above  the  vulgar  human! 

Is  the  cry  my  heart  multiplies  in  vain, 

Then  dashes  into  intemp'rance  again. 

Will  she  ever  come  ?  or  is  she  lost  to  Earth, 

And  on  some  other  Planet  has  her  birth  ? 

At  times  I've  thought  her  a  fabled  creation,  — 

A  vision  of  the  heart  in  its  desolation; 

And  again  in  misty  distance  I  seem  to  trace 

Her  seraph  form,  as  she  walks  to  my  embrace; 

And  when  she  is  here,  good-by  to  the  siren  throng, 

With  hearts  for  whomsoever  comes  along. 

'Twas  folly,  my  heart,  to  fancy  for  long  that  these 

With  their  false  and  transferable  affections  could  please; 

From  the  first  thou  demanded  a  truer  glow 

Than  negotiable  bosoms  can  e'er  bestow. 

Though  their  arts  engaged  thee  for  awhile  — 

The  softened  word  and  mechanical  smile, 

Thou  art  sick  of  it  all;  yet  where  canst  thou  flee 

In  all  the  wide  world  that  these  shall  not  be  ? 

Yet  hope  thee;  as  the  Pharaoh's  daughter 

Found  Moses  cribbed  beside  the  water, 

And  saved  him  from  her  father's  brute  decree, 

So  yet  may  this  true  woman  rescue  thee; 

And  give  thee  in  her  great  pure  heart  a  home, 

Beyond  whose  gates  thou  ne'er  shall  care  to  roam; 

By  which  the  palace  of  the  Egyptian  king 

That  housed  the  Hebrew  babe  were  a  paltry  thing. 

And  irrigated  by  her  great  womanhood's  love, 

Thy  desert  shall  become  as  the  Vale  of  Nile, 

54 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


Where  harvest  upon  harvest  doth  swiftly  move, 
By  nature's  novel  plan  of  enriching  the  soil. 
No  more  would  rise  thy  cry  for  mortal  need, 
Her  love  would  be  thy  universal  creed, 
Solving  the  problems  Life  and  Death  array, 
And  robbing  Skepticism  of  its  prey. 
Cry  on,  my  heart,  who  could  reverse  thy  fate 
Has  heard  thee  not;  or  else  she  tarries  late. 


April  29,  igo6. 


THOSE  EYES  OF  BLUE 

Turn  away  from  me  those  eyes  of  blue, 

For  oh!  there's  danger  in  their  gaze; 
The  greatest  danger  man  e'er  knew,  — 

The  pow'r  to  bless  —  the  pow'r  to  craze. 

None  meet  them  to  depart  their  ways 
As  calm  as  they  had  been  before; 

Upon  the  heart  their  image  preys, 
As  sweetheart's  eyes  watch  from  the  shore 
The  ship  which  hence  her  lover  bore. 

Too  long  for  future  peace,  I  fear, 
Those  eyes  have  looked  into  my  own, 

If  these  disquietudes  which  stir 
My  heart,  true  witnesses  depone. 
O  sweetest  eyes!  come  and  atone 

The  deed,  and  give  me  back  my  peace, 

55 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Or  else  my  presence  but  prefer, 
And  joy  is  mine  beyond  increase, 
A  joy  no  wealth  of  Earth  could  lease. 

May  1 6,  1906. 

A  PASSING  FACE 

You  looked  into  my  face  and  passed  your  way, 

Which  has  not  been  my  own  since  that  sweet  day, 

And  oh!  the  thought  it  nevermore  may  be, 

Is  fraught  with  sorrow  to  this  heart  of  me. 

O  Time  and  Fate,  shall  our  two  paths  twice  blend, 

Ere  we  this  mortal  pilgrimage  do  end  ? 

No  one  saw  our  greeting,  yet  we  spoke, 

As  ship  hails  sister  ship,  our  souls  awoke, 

And  silently  embraced;  then  tenderly 

Put  each  away,  perhaps  till  Eternity; 

Well  knowing  the  while  we  were  each  other's  own,  — 

Kindred  as  two  roses  one  bush  has  blown. 

To  the  hard  law  that  Circumstance  had  made 

For  us,  we  bow'd,  though  times  I  did  upbraid 

This  false  God,  for  cruel  as  Death  is  he, 

And  makes  things  other  than  what  they  should  be. 

To  conquer  him  the  soul  must  battle  do 

So  great  that  the  victorious  are  but  few. 

And,  unknown  one,  I've  thought  if  down  life's  track 
We  could  have  gone  the  journey  arm  in  arm, 

56 


BY  BERNARD  GRADT 


On  more  refulgent  deeds  I  might  look  back, 
Which  love  of  you  had  led  me  to  perform. 
This  was  denied  me,  and  even  your  name  and  sphere, 
But  to  know  you  are,  makes  the  Universe  more  dear. 

June  15,  1906. 
LOST 

Oh,  for  the  woman  my  fathers  knew! 
Whose  heart  to  the  call  of  her  sex  was  true; 

And  lived  her  destined  life. 
No  more  she  deems  it  her  chief  duty  to  be 
A  mother  with  children  aplay  at  her  knee,  — 

A  loved  and  loving  wife. 

Behold  to-day!  she's  abroad  in  the  world, 
By  the  side  of  man  her  banner  is  furl'd, 

Pitting  herself  'gainst  strife; 
Crowding  him  out  from  the  things  he  has  done 
Through  all  the  hundreds  of  years  that  are  gone, 

Unfulfilling  her  life! 

Acquiring  a  bold  and  masculine  front, 

In  place  of  the  ways  which  were  her  wont,  — 

Transmuting  her  woman's  nature; 
Becoming  a  man  in  thought  and  in  deed, 
Which  is  to  descend  from  a  flow'r  to  a  weed,  — 

From  a  pure  to  a  vulgar  creature. 

Once  man  could  retreat  from  himself  and  his  cares 
To  that  inviolate  kingdom  of  hers,  — 

57 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Of  wife  and  motherhood; 
Whose  life  was  all  apart  from  his  own, 
To  the  sin  and  strife  of  the  world  unknown; 

And  have  his  strength  renewed. 

And  then  to  the  call  of  his  life  go  out, 
With  heart  more  pure  and  sweet  and  stout. 

For  what  was  left  behind, 
To  cheer  again  his  return  at  eve 
With  love  which  knows  not  to  deceive, 

And  which  we  do  not  bind. 

Poor  man!  these  things  are  sadly  chang'd, 
And  woman's  thought  from  home  estrang'd, 

Which  now  becomes  a  name; 
And  yet  they  say  it  holds  him  not, 
And  that  his  duty  is  forgot, 

Nor  own  themselves  to  blame. 

For  her  who  ne'er  has  known  the  bliss 
That  lives  within  her  baby's  kiss, 

My  heart  runs  o'er  with  tears; 
For  she  has  missed  the  sweetness  of  life, 
And  with  her  nature  been  at  strife, 

And  great  are  her  arrears. 

I'd  say  to  her  with  desires  to  achieve 
Some  position  which  Fame  shall  interweave 

With  his  uncertain  self; 
For  which  her  name  will  ring  a  day, 

58 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


Then  like  a  bell  tone  fade  away, 
Go  put  them  on  a  shelf! 

Let  Nancy  Stair's  solution  of  life, 
Who  denied  her  genius  to  be  a  wife, 

With  babies  at  her  breast, 
And  put  away  her  much-loved  pen 
That  she  might  be  a  mother  of  men, 

For  you  the  question  test. 

That  there  were  more  such  women  as  she! 
Scotland!  art  thou  not  proud  to  be 

The  land  that  gave  her  birth  ? 
Who  gave  you  song,  and  more,  her  blood 
Transmitted  in  a  holy  flood, 

In  legacy  to  earth. 

That  unborn  son  of  yours  may  shame 
In  deeds  the  greatest  prev'ous  name, 

Which  hist'ry  hands  us  down; 
Thetis'  son  may  disrepute, 
Or  e'en  a  Caesar's  fame  refute, 

Though  great  be  their  renown. 

For  him  the  world  is  dying  fast, 
Oh!  bear  him  ere  the  need  be  past, 

Which  he  the  best  can  fill; 
Behold  therein  your  noblest  work, 
Nor  more  aspire  to  petty  clerk, 

And  bid  your  heart  be.  still. 

59 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


You  cannot  still  its  cry  for  children  I 
And  know  ye  'tis  a  mighty  omen 

No  woman  can  afford 
To  spurn;  though  all  the  world  be  given, 
Not  till  in  child-birth  she  has  striven 

Shall  happiness  reward. 

June  30,  1906. 

TWO  WORDS 

There  are  two  words  which  do  convey 

Unto  my  soul  supremest  doom, 
And  were  they  tangible,  I'd  slay 

And  place  them  in  the  deepest  tomb.  — 

The  crime  of  Cain  reiterate, 

And  think  as  Brutus  that  the  deed, 
Like  his  to  Caesar,  were  expiate 

In  the  prevalency  of  its  need. 

These  fatal  words  are  these,  "He  failed"; 

Alas!  of  man  they  should  be  said, 
Whose  obstacles  should  be  assailed 

And  crushed  e'en  as  the  serpent's  head. 

And  only  have  men  failed  because 

They  lacked  the  knowledge  of  their  power 

To  overwhelm  all  hostile  laws 
And  circumstances  of  the  hour 

60 


BY  BERNARD  GRADT 


Wherein  they  wrought;  which  known,  they'd  scorn 

The  instruments  of  their  defeat, 
And  wish  they  ne'er  had  been  born 

Than  such  profound  reproach  to  meet. 

Should  the  wolf  dispute  the  lion's  path 
And  drive  him  from  his  purposed  way, 

Who  in  his  hour  of  anger  hath 

The  pow'r  to  make  all  beasts  his  prey, 

How  should  we  scorn  that  lion!  and  take 

From  him  his  ancient  reputation; 
But  he's  self-known,  nor  e'er  will  quake 

And  lose  his  dignity  of  station. 

The  man  who  fails  deserves  like  scorn. 

As  easily  as  the  lion  defeats 
His  enemies,  each  man  that's  born 

Can  crush  the  obstacles  he  meets. 

His  pow'r  is  greater  than  the  gods 

Which  olden  Greece  and  Rome  adored, 

For  they  have  held  their  last  synods,  — 
Past  mortals'  call  forever  soared. 

At  least  did  ne'er  exist  but  in 

His  fancy,  which  created  them; 
And  the  creator  needs  have  been 

Yet  greater  than  his  peopled  realm. 

61 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


He  has  awakened  from  his  night 
Wherein  to  plural  gods  he  bow'd, 

And  seeing  with  a  clearer  sight, 
But  one  true  Deity  allow'd. 

Oh,  let  him  not  disgrace  Him  then, 

By  ill-directing  the  energies 
Which  he  hath  amply  given  men 

To  use  in  their  necessities. 

His  highest  creature  was  not  made 

To  turn  aside  from  hindrances, 
More  than  the  avalanche  hath  play'd 

Around  its  course's  rocks  and  trees. 

But  dashing  through  them  sweep  along 

Undaunted  till  the  goal  is  won, 
While  they  shall  bruised  and  bleeding  throng 

And  ask  the  way  that  he  has  gone. 

The  man  who  fails  commits  a  crime 
On  which  no  pardon  doth  await; 

Not  in  Eternity  nor  Time 
Shall  that  offense  be  expiate. 

How  should  he  fail  whom  God  has  given 
Such  ample  pow'r  with  which  to  win  ?  — 

A  mind  almost  as  high  as  heaven, 
Though  oft  debased  to  depths  of  sin. 
62 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


Oh,  may  the  day  come  quickly  on 

When  man  shall  know  his  proper  power, 

Then  on  his  efforts  there  will  dawn 
Success;  and  failure  fly  his  bower. 

Shall  those  same  words  be  said  of  me 

Who  here  my  hate  for  them  declare  ? 
Ah  no,  it  must  not  —  shall  not  be! 

Their  ignomy  I  will  not  share. 

September  2,  1906. 

YE  SILENT  STRINGS 

Composed  upon  viewing  a  collection  of  stringed  instruments 
in  the  National  Museum  at  Washington. 

Collected  here  from  many  climes, 

Ye  strings  of  other  days, 
I'm  dwelling  now  upon  the  times 

That  echoed  to  your  lays;  — 
The  days  that  Minstrelsy  did  live 

To  lighten  care  with  song, 
And  call  man  forth  full  oft  to  give 

Himself  to  Pleasure's  throng: 

Ere  love  of  gold  preferred  its  claim 

And  vetoed  lighter  arts, 
Ere  it  enslaved  in  awful  shame 

The  tuneful  notes  of  hearts, 

63 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


And  transformed  man  to  a  machine 

To  manufacture  gold, 
Which  is  the  end  —  his  life  the  mean; 

How  basely  is  it  sold! 

Ye  silent  strings,  where  are  the  hands 

That  once  thy  numbers  told  ? 
Do  they  strike  chords  on  other  strands 

On  instruments  of  gold  ? 
Did  their  souls'  taste  for  music  grow 

Beyond  your  pow'r  to  yield, 
Till  ye  consented  they  might  go 

And  seek  an  equal  field  ? 

Where  are  the  lips  that  love's  sweet  note 

In  ecstasy  did  breathe  ? 
Does  Love  still  on  its  object  dote, 

Or  is  this  death  a  Lethe  ? 
And  where  those  eyes  ?  —  forever  closed  ? 

No  more  acquaint  with  tears  ? 
Answer,  Death!  'twas  you  deposed 

The  beauty  which  was  theirs. 

Arouse,  ye  drowsy  strings,  and  tell 

Me  as  in  tears  I  gaze, 
Where  are  the  hearts  that  once  did  swell 

Unto  thy  buoyant  lays  ? 
Beyond  the  placid  sunset  shoals 

Did  Death  their  home  bestow, 

64 


EY  BERNARD  GRADT 


Where  ignorance  no  more  controls, 
And  they  life's  myst'ry  know  ? 

Reply  of  you  in  vain  I  seek, 

Ye  deeply-slumb'ring  strings; 
Will  ye  no  more  forever  speak, 

Ye  speech-disdaining  things  ? 
Or  would  your  tones  break  in  a  wail 

Too  sad  to  greet  my  ear, 
For  times  and  forms  beyond  the  Vale 

Where  floweth  mortal  tear  ? 

Adieu,  sleep  on,  your  work  is  done; 

And  no  mean  work  it  was; 
Ye  gladdened  hearts:  beneath  the  sun 

Preferred  is  he  who  does. 
If  aught  ye  know  of  their  abode 

Who  once  your  patrons  were, 
No  more  I  ask  it  be  bestowed 

Upon  my  hungry  ear. 

In  His  good  time  Who  knoweth  all 

Much  shall  unfolded  be, 
Of  things  which  darkly  now  befall, 

And  puzzle  you  and  me. 
And  I  believe  He  lets  us  see 

As  far  as  it  were  good; 
And  where  the  limitations  be, 

'Tis  best  for  us  they  should. 

September  7,  1906. 

65 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


DO  WE  DIE   BUT  ONCE? 

Must  one  forego  his  breath  and  lie 
A  senseless  form  before  man's  gaze 

Ere  he  be  credited  to  die  ? 
Ah  no!  death  comes  in  other  ways. 

Not  till  reclining  on  our  bier 
Do  we  confess  to  mortal  death; 

But  oh!  the  deaths  that  often  tear 
The  soul,  untestified  in  breath. 

For  there  be  lips  that  scorn  to  ope 
And  tell  the  anguish  that's  within; 

Those  who  prefer  alone  to  cope, 
And  unassisted  fall  or  win. 

And  many  graves  their  spirits  know, 

From  which,  Christ-like,  they  rose  again, 

To  live  despite  the  taunt  and  blow 
Of  crucifying  fellow-men. 

Scarce  man  has  lived  but  has  not  been 

A  murderer!  maybe  unhung, 
And  yet  full  guilty  that  dark  sin, 

For  words  or  deeds  of  his  that  stung 

To  death  the  heart  on  which  they  fell. 

And  this  death's  violence  passeth  that 
Which  e'er  to  eye  was  visible, 

Where  signs  of  common  death  have  sat. 

66 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


For  some  do  pass  as  peacefully 

As  sink  to  sleep  the  weary; 
Embrace  their  change  so  gracefully 

We  scarce  would  wish  them  tarry. 

But  like  to  pangs  of  that  sharp  kind 

Dropp'd  from  the  womb  of  Gethsemane, 

Where  agony  did  exit  find 

In  excrement  of  blood's  degree, 

Are  these  same  deaths  we  inly  die. 

They  are  no  bastard  progeny! 
Would'st  speak  with  them  when  they  draw  nigh  ? 

They'll  answer  to  —  Gethsemane! 

Gethsemane!  wilt  thou  ne'er  cease 

To  get  thee  more  posterity  ? 
Hath  not  thy  bountiful  increase 

Attested  thy  fertility  ? 

I  must  be  careful  lest  I  kill 

By  some  unkindness  or  neglect, 
Or  ills  ingratitudes  distil, 

Some  spirit  meeting  my  contact. 

For  some  are  tender  as  the  first 
Frail  flower  that  salutes  the  spring; 

At  lightest  shocks  their  heart  strings  burst; 
They  vibrate  to  each  passing  sting. 

Such  depth  of  sensibility 

Their  finer  temper'ments  contain, 

67 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


That  acts  of  slightest  enmity 
Present  to  them  aspects  of  pain. 

This  death's  rare  wealth  in  Precedent 

Extenuates  its  bitterness 
To  us  in  order  consequent, 

For  His  great  sympathy  doth  bless! 

I  crave  it  for  the  fellowship 

Its  visitation  guarantees 
With  Him  who  to  his  conquer'd  lip 

Press'd  death's  sharp  cup  of  agonies! 

And  as  in  that  dark  hour  was  given 

The  strength  to  conquer  over  pain, 
When  I  have  similarly  striven, 

His  aid  shall  not  be  sought  in  vain. 

I  not  disdain  the  sepulchers 

That  in  my  bosom  find  repose: 
They  represent  spent  blood  and  tears 

And  triumphs  that  a  spirit  knows! 

We  die,  but  like  the  Phoenix  rise 

From  our  own  dust,  in  grand  defy, 
And  purified,  since  all  dross  dies 

In  tests  where  essence  must  reply. 

October  15,  1906. 

68 


BT  BERNARD   GRADT 


SPECTATOR  OR  SPECTACLE 

I  would  not  choose  to  walk  the  way  of  life 

Without  a  thorn  to  wound  my  treading  feet, 
For  if  it  have  no  fellowship  with  strife, 

The  rest  it  leads  unto  will  be  less  sweet. 
The  travail  of  our  efforts  discipline 

The  quality  of  joy  the  harvest  yields, 
And  that  which  costs  us  little  pain  to  win 

The  highest  charm  of  its  possession  steals. 

I  would  not  sit  in  Fortune's  sunny  halls; 

No  soulful  physic  flows  from  cups  of  ease; 
But  they  who  answer  duty's  hallow'd  calls, 

And  to  no  other  Goddess  bow  their  knees, 
Perform  a  pageant  on  life's  highway 

More  grand  than  those  by  kings  and  princes  made, 
In  ostentation  of  some  special  day 

Which  doth  in  newer  honors  to  them  trade. 

For  what  do  such  denote  but  vanity  ? 

They  satisfy  the  eye  but  not  the  soul; 
But  in  the  strivings  of  humanity 

Are  pageantries  our  truest  parts  extol! 
And  they  pass  not  away  with  the  beholding, 

Like  petty  things  that  merely  entertain 
The  pilgrim  hour  that  chances  their  unfolding, 

And  for  their  levity,  unnamed  again. 

69 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


But  do  incorporate  themselves  into 

Each  particle  of  truth  the  world  contains, 
And  on  all  senior  truth  fall  like  a  dew 

And  kiss  its  harden'd  face  to  softer  strains: 
For  from  its  first  encounter  truth  is  fresh, 

Nor  dreams  how  oft  the  foe  will  test  its  steel, 
But  often-tried,  its  aspect  waxeth  harsh 

And  menacing  to  all  seeks  its  repeal. 

And  since  in  truth  they  carry  heavy  stock, 

Our  noble  deeds  defy  oblivion's  power; 
To  Time's  wide-cance'ling  agents  give  the  mock, 

And  swear  attendance  on  his  latest  hour. 
Who  piled  on  high  the  mighty  pyramid 

Did  pageantry  that  awes  this  distant  day, 
And  ancient  Greece  and  Rome  our  wonder  bid, 

Such  world-inspiring  pageants  were  they! 

In  life  we  are  Spectators  or  Spectacles;  — 

The  passing  pageant  or  looker-on: 
Like  lusty  harvesters  throw  in  our  sickles, 

Or  imitate  the  idle  bee,  call'd  drone. 
Who  would  not  rather  do  the  deed  than  shout 

In  praise  of  it  when  other  hand  has  done  ? 
We  have  our  choice,  and  lay  our  own  course  out, 

Spectator  or  Spectacle  —  star  or  sun. 

I  seek  the  place  where  things  shall  sternly  prove 
My  naked  worth;  and  they  shall  acids  be, 
70 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


Whose  action  is  false  surface  to  remove; 

O  subject  me  to  their  sharp  chemistry! 
And  as  they  eat  away  the  false  in  coin, 

If  it  contain  compound  of  counterfeit, 
So  my  defective  parts  they  shall  disjoin 

From  what  is  substance  and  will  not  submit. 

Yes,  place  me  where  the  battle  is  the  strongest  1 

Where  obstacles  on  ev'ry  side  abound; 
On  that  same  field  whose  conflict  lasts  the  longest, 

There  is  the  only  consecrated  ground! 
There  I,  contending,  may  do  pageant 

That  shall  suggest  man  past  his  best  endeavor; 
Create  resolve  in  who  are  diffident, 

And  falsify  the  limits  some  discover. 

October  23,  1 906. 

A  TRIBUTE  TO  TRUST 

No  mathematician  can  ever  compute 

The  sum  of  the  good  that  trusting  has  done; 

The  harvests  of  lives  that  have  come  to  their  fruit 
From  the  sun  and  showers  of  trusting  alone! 

Where  native  ambition  is  never  at  flood, 

Foreboding  scant  fraughtage  on  some  life's  tide, 

The  physic  of  trust  augmenteth  the  mood, 

Till  deep-drawing  craft  on  its  channel  may  ride. 

The  stars  I  have  reached  in  number  and  brilliance 
Would  fill  a  less  firmament  far  than  they  do, 

71 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


And  more  of  my  days  been  wedded  to  dalliance, 
Had  trust  ne'er  revealed  her  face  to  my  view. 

I  thank  the  blest  soul,  or  souls  it  may  be, 
For  that  rare  moment  enlinked  with  the  past, 

Which  argued  to  them  some  fulfilment  in  me,  — 
Some  unmatured  fruit  they  sought  to  foretaste. 

For  then  I  became  an  heir  to  their  trust,  — 
The  kindliest  spur  ever  urged  me  on, 

Whose  prickings  I  deem  in  effect  most  just, 

And  without  them  should  have  fewer  miles  gone. 

To  the  fire  my  bosom's  ambition  enkindled, 
That  trust  of  theirs  was  a  fuel  most  rare; 

Unnourish'd  of  which  it  might  have  low-dwindled, 
And  finally  died  in  the  lap  of  despair. 

But  the  trust  they  reposed  I  could  not  disappoint, 
However  my  heart  its  own  int'rest  excused; 

When  my  energy  lagged  their  belief  did  anoint 
And  the  spirit  that  won  into  me  infused. 

Twill  be  a  small  char'ty  in  you  or  in  me, 
But  an  alms  in  riches  surpassing  all  rate, 

To  regard  each  man  as  a  personal  fee, 
Sometime  to  be  paid  to  our  trust's  estate. 

The  debt  will  assuredly  meet  reimbursement, 
If  long  enough  Death  withholdeth  his  check; 

72 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


Surer  of  port  than  Antonio's  shipment, 

On  which  he  loaned  money  and  which  endured  wreck. 

The  moneys  we  loan  oft  never  return, 

Like  Custer  who  rode  on  his  blundering  raid; 

The  notes  we  indorse,    the  owners  oft  spurn, 
And  the  forfeits  from  our  coffers  are  paid. 

But  never  will  man  discountenance  give 

To  the  fee  our  trust  exacteth  in  deeds; 
And  the  recompense  we  may  hope  to  receive 

Shall  balance  whatever  trust's  meter  reads. 

Our  trust  is  too  selfish;  too  closely  it  keeps 
To  its  comfortable  room  in  the  house  of  the  heart; 

And  lacking  its  visit  some  energy  sleeps, 
And  subtracts  its  due  from  life's  busy  mart. 

It  needs  to  be  tutor'd  to  bounteous  uses, 

Like  the  torrent-swell'd  Nile  it  should  learn  to  dilate, 
Till  over  the  banks  of  the  heart  it  rushes 

And  delivers  increase  to  the  human  estate. 

And  never  did  Nile's  rich  Valley  produce 

Such  harvests  as  then  their  hands  would  deliver; 

And  the  souls  whose  trust  made  their  lives  so  profuse 
Shall  rival  in  good  that  remarkable  river. 

I  propose  a  new  party  whose  issue  shall  be, 
More  trust  in  men!  whose  politics  fail 

73 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS 


Because  in  the  sev'ral  platforms  they  decree, 
This  plank  is  exempt  from  the  carpenter's  nail. 

He  may  slay  his  mind  in  search  of  the  way 

By  which  to  advance  his  political  state, 
And  all  his  methods  conduct  him  astray, 

Till  his  heart  instructs  him  trust  is  the  gate. 

November  8,  1906. 

THE    DEAD 

My  heart,  cannot  the  present  your  attention  stead, 

That  ye  anon  turn  longingly  unto  the  dead, 

As  ye  would  pluck  them  back  from  their  removed  abode 

To  do  again  the  labors  of  this  earthly  road  ? 

They  are  delivered,  as  the  mother  from  the  pain 

Of  her  first-born,  or  heavy  cloud  that  bursts  in  rain. 

But  some  deliveries  are  dear  and  often  kill 

Who  do  deliver  and  who  help'd  the  act  fulfill. 

Ask  the  young  husband  who  has  yielded  up  his  bride 

When  scarce  the  vows  were  cold  which  link'd  her  to  his  side, 

And  seen  a  happy  future  shorten'd  to  a  year, 

With  life  unpropertied  to  him  forever  here! 

Tis  likely  he  can  tell  you  what  deliv'ry  means 

To  those  with  int'rest  in  the  subjects  of  such  scenes. 

And  I  should  happy  be  that  they  no  more  are  torn 

By  thorns  which  flourish  here  and  in  our  hearts  are  worn. 

But  O!  their  points  are  sharper  since  the  ear  is  dull 

74 


BT  BERNARD  GRADT 


Which  did  receive  the  heart  beyond  retention  full  — 

Whose  comfort -yielding  voice  is  hearken'd  for  in  vain  — 

Whose  magic  touch  is  absent  from  the  spot  of  pain: 

They  were  so  necessary  to  our  fortitude! 

We  might  the  firmer  stand  had  they  beside  us  stood. 

But  as  some  frailer  tree  emplanted  near  an  oak, 

Which  one  day  falls  to  earth  beneath  the  woodman's  stroke, 

Is  left  without  protection  from  the  storm's  attack, 

Are  we  who  in  our  woes  the  fallen  bulwark  lack. 

And  heavily  we  sigh  in  mem'ry  of  the  arms 

Which  once  did  corral  us  from  all  approach  of  harms. 

And  so  my  heart  oft  flies  its  duty  to  the  living 

To  speak  the  dead:     I  hope  the  crime  may  be  forgiving. 

Who  are  the  dead  ?     Are  they  not  also  days  or  places  — 

The  nurs'ry  tale  or  fickle  friendship's  empty  vases  — 

The  beauty  that  did  make  a  Goddess  of  a  mortal, 

And  which  we've  seen  escape  by  some  remorseless  portal  — 

Maybe  the  echo  of  those  silver-pealing  chimes 

Emitted  from  some  living  heart  in  absent  times  — 

Perhaps  the  word  of  love  that  tremb'ling  found  expression, 

Or  rapture  of  the  heart  that  answer'd  its  vibration;  — 

That  we  recall  as  though  their  subjects  too  were  dead, 

Because  no  more  we  banquet  on  their  meat  and  bread. 

And  thus  the  living  are  the  dead  in  their  remove  — 

In  the  inconstant  orbits  fashion'd  by  their  love. 

Unnamed,  recallest  thou  those  early-blighted  days, 
Which  briefly  join'd  together  —  then  divorced  our  ways  ? 
Dost  think  they  ever  will  a  resurrection  know  ? 

75 


WAIFS,  OR  POEMS  BY BERNARD  GRADT 

That  in  their  ashes  doth  a  spark  of  essence  glow  ? 

Or  Love  may  yet  awake  them  from  their  fair  youth's  grave 

And  from  a  further  separating  Angel  save  ? 

Or  that  they  too  are  disembodied  and  interred 

Beyond  the  pow'r  of  Love's  reanimating  word  ? 

I  can  but  hope;  and  if  they  are  forever  fled, 

I  here  confess  my  heart  is  often  with  the  dead! 

Who  e'en  from  the  perspective  of  the  tomb  attract 

And  from  a  vital  present's  needs  our  thoughts  extract. 

The  dead!  can  they  be  dead  who  thus  the  living  draw? 

In  them  must  linger  yet  some  share  of  life's  sweet  law. 

December  2,  1906. 


,'* 


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